New Way
by moonlighten
Summary: 1806: Scotland embarks on his first relationship after losing France. (Scotland/Jersey.) One-shot, complete. Part of the Feel the Fear series.


**1806; Saint Helier, Bailiwick of Jersey  
**

-  
The last time Scotland had had the pleasure of helping a woman disrobe, he had been as sober as a judge, and she had been wearing a simple shift beneath her dress.

Not only have ladies' undergarments have greatly increased in complexity since the early fourteenth century, but he has imbibed what must be a good half cask's-worth of Madeira and sweetened gin this evening, so he thinks his continued inability to unfasten the laces of Jersey's stays is somewhat excusable.

Besides, his hands have always been clumsy, and they always shake a little when he tries to undertake delicate tasks.

He isn't nervous.

He's been intimate with a woman before. More than once. And even though France had been there to guide him on those occasions, he remembers his directions then with sufficient clarity that he should be able to comport himself adequately now.

His fingers tangle with the laces again, accidentally pulling them tighter instead of loosening them. Jersey's breath catches sharply, and she turns her head to frown at him over her shoulder.

The slight pouting uptilt of her lips makes the expression seem playful rather than chiding, but Scotland still feels shamed by it.

"Sorry," he says. "I don't... I've never..."

Jersey takes pity on him before he has to embarrass himself any further. "Perhaps it would be easier if I took over," she says, and not at all unkindly.

Scotland nods eagerly to that at first, but then a very unwelcome thought intrudes. "Will you need to call for your maid?" he asks slowly, reluctant to truly entertain it.

He had left his jacket behind in the sitting room - where they had been drinking and then, in their cups, first started flirting - and his breeches had been discarded at some point between there and Jersey's bedchamber. Her maid is doubtless well-trained and very discreet, but he still has no wish for her to see him wearing naught but his shirt and drawers. The prospect that some poor housemaid might stumble across those lost breeches come morning is quite mortifying enough on its own.

To his relief, Jersey answers him no, before suggesting that he make himself comfortable whilst she retreats to her dressing table.

Scotland sits on the edge of her bed as directed, but comfort does not follow as promised. He doesn't know where to look, to start. Watching Jersey feels prurient, somehow, despite knowing what is sure to come between them once she has finished at her work, so he instead watches the rhythmic bounce of his knees as his heels tap-tap-tap against the floor.

And he stays silent, because he has not the knack for flatteries and love words. He and France had never been in the habit of using them, or even been much inclined towards pillow talk, particularly towards the end. Thankfully, Jersey appears to take after her cousin in this regard, for she does not tease him for his lack of such words, nor offer any of her own in turn.

The task of removing the stays must be a far more complex one than even Scotland had guessed, because his arse has started to become numb, his throat and eyes grown stingingly dry, before he hears a quiet tread approach him, and soft hands settle light on his shoulders.

It takes him a moment to gather the fortitude to look up, and then a second to dare touch. He wraps his hands loosely around Jersey's wrists, and is immediately struck by how huge they seem in contrast to her delicate bones; how coarse and inelegant.

His stomach churns again with a new fear. It is a long time since he was allowed to be gentle - France never much cared for it - and he hopes that he has not forgotten how, in case Jersey wants that from him.

France did, however, often need him to be slow, to take his time, especially if it had been some time since they last bedded together, so perhaps that might suffice in gentleness's stead.

That thought relaxes him slightly, though clearly it is not sufficient to make him appear at ease, as Jersey asks him: "Are you feeling unwell, _mon cher_? You look very pale."

"I'm fine," he says quickly, and perhaps a little too flippantly, as Jersey's brow remains furrowed in concern. Seeing it so, he forces himself to add, "It's just... It's just been a long while for me, you ken."

He refrains from revealing how long that while is, as he does not like to think of it himself. There had been that night with Norway, of course, between then and now, but Scotland's mind had been so addled at the time that the memory of it is blurred into near incoherence, and he doesn't think it counts for much of anything as a consequence.

"As it has for me," Jersey admits with a small smile. "Don't trouble yourself about that, Scot. I'm not expecting a bravura performance, from either of us. No duo sings in perfect harmony from the start. That takes time and" - she presses a swift kiss to his lips - "and plenty of practice."

Her second kiss lingers, long enough that the fire that had been banked since their time together in the sitting room begins to rekindle in Scotland's belly and chest. But still, he cannot bring himself to press closer. It had been easy before, because Jersey had led and he only had to follow, but now she seems to be waiting, expectant, and he knows that his instincts in this have never been good. Time and again, that had been proven to him, so all he can do is placidly accept the kiss and disappoint her.

Eventually, she draws back, and says, "If you prefer, we could always return downstairs. Continue talking of Napoleon."

Though the words are laughingly spoken, it's clear from the sharp cast of her eyes that they are seriously meant.

It would be so much easier to say, 'I would', to forget this, save himself fresh embarrassment, and continue on as they ever have. Jersey is kind enough to give him that, but whilst it might be easier, Scotland is certain that it would not be _better_. He knows he would come to regret such a decision, because, although his blood may have cooled considerably, he still remembers how he had felt earlier, before the doubts had had chance to set in. How Jersey had felt, looked and tasted, and how he'd wanted her more than anyone since France. Anyone apart from France.

"I think I've had enough of Napoleon to last me a lifetime," he says, and though he's sure it's the right thing to say, his voice still trembles, and he still cannot find the courage to move his hands and touch Jersey more intimately. He can think of only one way to break his hesitation, and though the words are an uncomfortable echo of another anxious night centuries ago, he knows they are the only ones he can say. "But please, I'm not very... You'll have to to show me what to do." Suddenly aware that that might inadvertently sound like a _complete_ fumbling novice, Scotland is quick to add, "What you like in particular, I mean."

He's sure such things do come instinctively to other people - smoothly and easily, like the dance France often termed it - but Scotland has no other option, he feels, than to ask.

Jersey gives him an oddly unreadable look for a beat or two, but then her expression softens into a smile.

"Of course," she says. "Gladly." Her third kiss is deeper and longer by far, and her right hand begins to drift down from Scotland's shoulder towards the ties of his shirt. "And I hope you'll do me the courtesy of the same in return."


End file.
